


Time Did Not Compose Her

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Christmas, Drabble, F/M, Family, Fluff, Friendship, Love, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 16:43:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5505155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clara tried to tell him, she truly did. But at first, she couldn't. Because after all, he was the Doctor, and what did he really know about children?</p><p>As it turned out, rather a lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time Did Not Compose Her

**Author's Note:**

> This is a silly, silly idea I had, in which Clara finds out she is pregnant sometime before the final scene of Death in Heaven, and takes place in an alternate timeline in which Face The Raven did not happen.
> 
> Dedicated to [Steph](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackandBlueMagpie/pseuds/BlackandBlueMagpie), who inspired some of Emma and Clara's dialogue during late night exchanges of headcanons.

She honestly meant to tell him. As they sat together in the tiny café, fixed smiles upon their faces, she truly did intend to tell him the truth about everything. Somewhere between her brain and her mouth, however, the words got a little lost along the way, and she found herself adrift in a sea of silence. _Strange,_ she mused. _This has never happened before._

Formulating the lie came naturally to her, but still she hoped he might notice when he embraced her, hoping against hope that she wouldn’t actually have to say the two little words that would make it so true, so final, so life-altering. She’d already had enough difficulty telling her family, unable to even get as far as the second word without dissolving into tears, and telling the Doctor would be an even bigger step to overcome.

He didn’t say anything, after she had pulled away from the hug, and she wondered whether he had noticed, and was just too embarrassed to say anything, until she realised that staying silent was not in his nature. Sighing inwardly, she resigned herself to his ignorance, to the fact that he would never know the truth of the matter. She wondered whether he might drop in on her a couple of years down the line and be pleasantly surprised. Or perhaps unpleasantly. She wasn’t entirely sure what his position on the matter would be, after all, whether he would manage to be pleased for her or whether he would get back in his blue box and never return. 

She watched the TARDIS dematerialise with a sad little smile on her face, and not for the first time, she felt a tiny fluttering in her stomach. She sighed and placed one hand on her stomach, trying to think positively. “Come on, kid,” she whispered to herself tearfully. “Lets go home.”

 

~/~/~/~

 

When they laid the tiny baby in her arms, Clara’s mind was elsewhere. _Mum should have been here. And Danny. He would’ve been so happy to meet his baby. His beautiful, perfect baby…_

“A girl,” the midwife’s cheerful voice snapped her from her reverie. “You have a beautiful baby daughter.” 

Clara looked down then, her face breaking into a smile as she took in her daughter’s smooth, perfect skin and her shock of dark hair. When the newborn opened her eyes and regarded her mother, it was with tiny duplicates of Clara’s hazel eyes, already – or so it seemed – full of a wisdom Clara could not begin to comprehend. She offered a finger to her daughter, who seized it in her fist and made quiet sounds of contentment, staring solemnly up at her mother.

“You’re perfect,” Clara managed. “So perfect. Your daddy would have loved you.” She pressed her lips to her baby’s forehead, overcome with tears. 

Her daughter stared up at her with a look that seemed far beyond her years, one which seemed to say to Clara: “I know.”

 

~/~/~/~

 

“Do you know what's rarer? Second chances. I never get a second chance, so what happened this time? Don't even know who to thank.” 

The Doctor’s words rang in her ears as Clara stood at the console, trying to look calm and composed, and not like someone who has just left her baby with her grandmother, on Christmas Eve, in order to run away with a madman in a box. _Who am I kidding._ Trying not to look like someone with a baby, full stop. _You really need to tell him,_ her guilty conscience interjected. _You can’t keep lying like this, it’s unfair on you both. It’s unfair on Emma. What if you miss-_  

She attempted a casual tone, arranging her features into a mask of neutrality. “We can pop back to here, right?” she asked, her thoughts full of Emma, and the prospect that thanks to the Doctor’s dodgy grasp of coordinates, she may miss her daughter’s first Christmas. No sleepy morning snuggles. No first stocking, full of neatly wrapped presents in carefully coordinated wrapping paper. No carefully-chosen, gender-neutral first Christmas present. 

“Your lack of faith in me is insulting,” the Doctor protested. “It’s a _time_ machine, Clara. You won’t miss anything at all.” Clara raised a single eyebrow delicately and the Doctor scoffed. “What? OK, you may miss five minutes of snow, or boring Christmas telly, or your nan drinking too much sherry. Silly human things. But you hate those things! They’re rubbish.” 

Clara’s mind was not on _silly human things._ Clara’s mind was on Emma, and the way her eyes lit up when she saw Clara, the way she held onto Clara’s hair as she had a bottle, the way her hair felt against Clara’s shoulder as she fell asleep in her arms. Even things like the Doctor’s predictions of _boring Christmas telly_ or _snow_ seemed infinitely more magical when she considered them in relation to Emma, her daughter reaching for the pretty colours of the TV screen or grabbing for a snowflake in glee.

Taking a deep breath, she forced a smile and tried not to worry. “Yeah, fine. Of course it will.”

 

 ~/~/~/~

 

 _He was always going to find out,_ she told herself. She just hadn’t anticipated it being like this. 

She’d just got back from the supermarket in the rain, Emma strapped to her chest and grizzling mightily. Much like her mother, Emma Oswald Pink had little care for rain, or wind, or the cold. Today had been a combination of all three, and she was tired and irritable and in need of her mother’s exclusive attention. Clara sighed and stuck her key in the door. “I know, baby girl. It’s OK, we’re nearly home! Nice and warrrrrrrrmmmmmm.” she cooed, all but tumbling through the front door when it finally relented to open. “There we go! See!” 

She set her bags down and lifted Emma from her sling, bouncing her on her hip and stroking her hair. “We could rustle up some nice biscuits, how about that? Biscuits for baby and tea for me and maybe even some Cbeebies.” She was strongly opposed to TV parenting, but right now anything that would ensure a happy, sleepy Emma seemed a blessing for her, and so _Mister Tumble_ would have to be necessary evil. She planned ahead, as she always did, considering nap times and meal times and bath times, as she began to lug her Tesco bags into the kitchen. 

So engrossed was Clara with Emma and her shopping that she didn’t notice the shadowy figure sat on the sofa in semi-darkness until he flicked on the light.

“Why do you have a new human?” the Doctor asked, and Clara shrieked. Emma, startled to hear her mother make such a noise, promptly began to cry. Clara sighed.

“Great, bloody well done. She was already moody.” Clara jiggled Emma ineffectually, trying to offer some comfort, as her daughter wailed and clung to her jumper.

“I’d be moody if you were considering making me watch Cbeebies,” the Doctor muttered. “Why does she keep calling you mum? She’s very confused, this new human. Maybe it’s all the rubbish telly.”

“She doesn’t call me anything, she doesn’t – _wait a second, do you speak Baby?_ ”

“Of course I speak Baby, any idiot can do it. Except adult humans apparently, it’s useless for your survival skills.” He looked at Emma intently. “That’s not mum, that’s Clara and – oh come on. That’s just rude.”

“What’s rude?” Clara asked despite herself, glad for the change of topic.

“She asked if I’m dad. As if. Anyway. Why _does_ she think you’re her mum? I thought you were a teacher now, not a nanny. Is this one just very confused? You haven’t stolen her, have you?” He smiled at Emma and she smiled back, her tears forgotten, entranced by this strange man who seemed to have a solid grasp of what she was saying. _Unlike mum._

“No, ah, this is… this is Emma.” Clara wondered where to start, how best to explain the situation to him.

“She likes her name.” the Doctor affirmed, and Clara felt a small flush of pride. “Most babies hate them, I met one once who much preferred to be called ‘Stormageddon, Dark Lord of All.’ Not Emma here. Emma likes Emma.”

“Doctor, shut up, please. This is Emma _Oswald Pink._ ” She gave him a pointed look.

“Well, that’s very coincidental.”

“What is?”

“That you’ve stolen one with that combination of names.”

Clara just stared at him. She couldn’t tell if he was teasing her, being deliberately dense, or genuinely just not grasping the concept. _It’s the Doctor,_ she told herself. _It could be any of the above. Or even all._ She took a deep breath and steeled herself.

“This is Emma Oswald Pink. _My daughter._ ” Clara blurted, and the Doctor gave her a strange look.

“Your…”

“My daughter, yes.”

“You made this human?” he looked at Emma with wonder.

“That would be correct.”

“With PE?” he didn’t even look slightly incredulous, which Clara supposed was progress.

“Yes, with Danny.”

“She’s…” he paused for a moment. “She’s _brilliant._ ”

Clara almost laughed out loud with sheer relief. _He likes her. He really, actually likes her. And me. He still likes me._

“What the hell are you playing at, Clara?!” he all but shouted. “Gallivanting off with me when you’ve got this little one to worry about at home?! You might _die_!”

_Maybe not me, then._

“I don’t leave her alone! And we aren’t ever gone for very long!” Clara held tightly onto Emma, who began to grizzle again. “I’m allowed to do both, loads of people have a hobby and a baby and I don’t just want to be some boring woman who’s stuck at home with a kid, I want to have a life! She isn’t missing out on anything! And I’m not going to bloody die!”

“She’s missing out on being able to feel her arms,” the Doctor muttered. “Maybe loosen up a bit.”

“You can get off your bloody high horse and all! You can’t just come in here and start translating _my_ daughter to me like you’re some kind of world expert on babies. Get out, Doctor. Just get out and leave us alone. Leave us both alone! Get in your blue box and go far, far away!”

“But…”

“GO!” Clara shouted, and he went, the noise of the TARDIS filling her tiny flat as she sank down onto the sofa with Emma on her lap. Her daughter looked up at her with what, for all the world, looked like a reproachful gaze. “And don’t you bloody start on me and all.”

 

 ~/~/~/~

 

 _I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pass judgement on you and your life choices,_ he read for the thirteenth time since he’d landed the TARDIS. The card was written in Clara’s neat script and had never been intended for use on her, but here he was, coming back to grovel, metaphorical cap in hand, two minutes after he’d left. He muttered the sentence under his breath once more then opened the door of the TARDIS and strode out, the apology card in one hand and a box balanced in the other.

Clara was sat on the sofa, mouth agape.

“Clara, look, I’m sorry for urm, passing judgement on you, and… stuff, I came back to say sorry. Look, I went and got presents for Emma! Space presents. What other baby can enjoy that, she might even find it more diverting than telly. I hope you’re not still making her watch rubbish telly.”

Still, Clara only stared at him.

“What? Look, just tell me what I’m missing or close your mouth, you’re catching flies.”

“You do know that fight was two months ago?” she managed.

“No, no, no!” he protested. “Two minutes!!”

“It was definitely two months,” Clara said firmly. “Because last time you came…”

“Mama,” came a small voice over the baby monitor. “Mama.”

“Last time you came, she couldn’t do that.” Clara stood and went to fetch Emma from her cot, leaving the Doctor alone in the sitting room to ponder the nature of his mistake. _It could’ve been worse,_ he told himself. _It could’ve been two years, and then think about how angry she would’ve been._

When Clara came back into the room, he couldn’t help but smile. Emma’s eyes were as wide and expressive as her mother’s, and she regarded the Doctor with a cool curiosity that reminded him intensely of Clara.

“Mama,” she said again, her eyes fixed on the Doctor.

“Not me, kiddo. Mama has a bit more hair.”

“And a few less wrinkles,” Clara added good-naturedly, and he knew then that he was off the hook. “What’s in the box? You didn’t bring her one of those puppies from Theta 9 did you? I can’t explain a six legged dog to the neighbours.”

“No, it’s better than a puppy. It’s _presents._ ” The Doctor assured her, and Emma perked up. _Presents_ was one of the Good Things That Mummy Said. It was up there with _ice cream_ and _feeding the ducks_ and _cuddles._

Clara put Emma down on the rug, and the Doctor sat cross legged by her. “OK, where shall we start?”

With a flourish he pulled out a strange looking object and passed it to Emma, who immediately put it in her mouth.

“Urm, Doctor?” Clara asked nervously. “Is that safe?”

“It’ll be fine,” he assured her.

“What if she chokes?!”

“She won’t choke, Clara, these are baby toys.”

“ _Alien_ baby toys,” Clara reminded him. “For _aliens_.”

“Clara.” He said, with an expression of mock-hurt. “I wouldn’t give her anything _dangerous._ You’re forgetting I have dad skills.”

“Dada,” Emma interjected, and both adults looked at her with surprise. “Dada.”

“No, darling,” Clara crouched by her daughter. “Not daddy. We’ve seen daddy, haven’t we? In pictures? This is the Doctor.”

“Doc,” Emma managed, and the Doctor smiled at her.

“I told you. She’s brilliant.”

“Well, she’s half me,” Clara teased him, standing up again as Emma bashed two of the toys together and pink sparks erupted across the carpet. “Coffee?”

“Tea, please, seven sugars. Or make that eight, your tea leaves a lot to be desired.” Clara rolled her eyes at him and went to the kitchen, switching the kettle on and leaning against the worktop so she could stare out the window. When she looked away from the view a moment later, he was leaning in the doorway, a look of contrition on his face. 

“Clara, look, I shouldn’t have… I didn’t mean to be cross.” He paused for a moment. “One evening a week. If you aren’t too tired, and have a good babysitter. Not the lady from next door, Emma says she smells like cabbage.”

Clara nodded, suddenly embarrassed. “That would be…” she fished around for the right word. “Nice. Thank you.”

“I have something for you, too,” the Doctor admitted, and he took a small cube out of his jacket and handed it to Clara. “I worked on it for ages.”

“What is it?” She asked curiously, pressing a button on the side, and suddenly there was a 3D hologram of Danny hovering above the cube, about as high as her hand, rotating slowly. “What…”

“Clara,” the hologram said. “I love you.”

The Doctor looked at his feet, embarrassed. “I told him it was for you to keep. He liked the novelty. I just wanted you to have something of…”

He wasn’t able to finish his sentence, because Clara threw her arms around him, overcome with tears.

“Thank you,” she murmured thickly. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

There was a loud boom from the lounge, followed by the sound of Emma crying.

Clara’s expression iced over abruptly, her tears disappearing.

“Not dangerous my _arse_.”

 

~/~/~/~

 

When they got home from the nativity play, the TARDIS was parked in the lounge and the Doctor was sat on the sofa, smiling broadly. “How’d it go?” he asked.

Emma, six years old, as self-assured and confident as her mother already, threw herself into his arms. “It was the _best._ I was the sparkliest angel in the whole play.”

“Yeah, the teacher was very curious about that fabric,” Clara quipped, coming into the room, tinsel in her hair and a proud smile on her face. “Told her I got it from that bloke down at the market with the dodgy eyebrows.”

“Well, that was only a little white lie, wasn’t it?” the Doctor teased, and she grinned more widely. The teacher didn’t have to know that _the market_ meant the one on Akhaten, or that the fabric was star silk – woven from the light of newborn stars. The Doctor has chosen it himself, under careful direction from Clara, in order to ensure Emma’s success as the Angel Gabriel.

“Can the Doctor stay for dinner? And can we have pizza? You _promised,_ mummy.” Emma pleaded, and Clara pretended to ponder the issue.

“Well, I suppose so,” she finally told her daughter. “Go and get changed, love.”

Emma bounded off excitedly to her room, and Clara laughed, taking her jacket off to reveal a festive jumper underneath.

“Thank you again. It meant a lot to her.”

“Well, I need someone to spoil. Besides, if she can’t come on trips…”

“Doctor.” Clara’s voice was firm. “We’ve talked about this: she’s too young, it’s too dangerous, she’d tell everyone…”

He cut her off. “I know, I know! _As_ she can’t come to space with us, we can at least bring space to her.”

“Does that include space pizza?”

“Don’t push it.”

 

 ~/~/~/~

 

It was, at the end of the day, Clara’s fault.

Emma had smiled sweetly at him when he landed in the lounge, and told him _mummy’s gone to the shop, but she won’t be long,_ before continuing in the same breath: “I’m doing a project on space and mummy said that you can show me, she said it was alright.”

He’d frowned then. “Which bit of space? This solar system, or the next one? Because this one’s boring, you haven’t done anything with it yet.”

“Well, I’m studying _this_ one. Mummy said you can show me.”

“Did she now?” he was dubious. He knew how overprotective Clara was of Emma, and how determined she was that Emma should be kept firmly on planet Earth.

“I mean, if you don’t think you can manage it, then we don’t have to.” Emma gave him a look he recognised very well. Honestly, why was Clara teaching her things like that? It wasn’t fair on him.

“I can show you, I just don’t think…” he had tried to protest, and that was when it had happened. Emma had looked at him in that way her mother so often did, with eyes as wide as saucers and full of equal parts pleading and sorrow. Her hazel orbs had seemingly inflated, and he knew then that his protestations were pointless. He’d ushered her into the TARDIS, and they’d been having a perfectly nice time, until he’d landed five minutes after they left.

Clara had been stood in the lounge in a towel, her hair plastered to her scalp, her face a mask of fury that would have made the assembled hordes of Genghis Khan quake in their boots.

“WHICH PART OF ‘SHE ISN’T TO GO TO SPACE’ DID YOU NOT LISTEN TO?” she’d screamed. “I _EXPRESSLY_ FORBADE IT. I LEFT YOU UNATTENDED FOR _FIVE MINUTES._ ”

“Mummy…” Emma had begun, suddenly unsure of herself.

“Not _you_!” Clara hissed, rounding on the Doctor. “I mean this idiotic, moronic, downright irresponsible _arsehole,_ who thinks it’s ok to just hop off to Venus with other people’s children!”

“To be fair, Clara, it was basically your fault…”

The Doctor sighed and leant against the console, rubbing the spot on his shoulder she’d punched.

 _That had probably been the wrong thing to say,_ he acknowledged.

 

~/~/~/~

 

Emma was sat at the table, chewing her pen and flicking through the pages of _Pride & Prejudice_ angrily.

“Mum, Jane Austen was _lame._ I can’t believe you named me after some book that some old lady from the 1800s wrote. _Boring._ ”

Clara sighed. She had hoped that Emma would take after her, but instead it was beginning to seem that she was, like her father, infinitely more interested in maths than in _Mansfield Park._ She had been complaining about this essay for weeks: the deadline date, the subject matter, the fact she was only in Year 9, and _seriously mum, like why do I have to write essays, I’m not even in my GCSE year yet._

“Jane Austen was brilliant! If it wasn’t for Jane Austen, I would never have found out that…” she broke off. It probably wasn’t a cool thing to admit to your teenage daughter.

“Never would have found out what? That you’re totally, totally lame?”

“Honestly Emma,” the Doctor appeared, as he so often did these days, out of nowhere. Clara made a mental note to speak to him about unmuffling the TARDIS engines. “I think your mother wants to say that if it weren’t for a certain Jane Austen, she would never have found out quite how much she enjoyed the company of women.”

Clara could have slapped him. She would have, but he was too far away, so instead she fixed him with her best death glare, as Emma’s face took on an expression of disgust.

“Oh my _god,_ mum, you were a lesbian for Jane Austen? That’s dis- _gus-_ ting.” Emma shuddered.

“I wasn’t… I’m not… yes, Emma, I’m a lesbian, that’s how I got you.” Clara snapped. “Just get on with your homework.”

The Doctor crossed the room and leant over the dining table, eyes shining. “Why just homework? We could go and meet Jane herself. I bet no one else in the class would have that advantage. You can ask her all about…” he squinted at her notes. “’Whether or not Darcy wanted to bang Elizabeth.’” he finished distastefully, and Emma affixed him with a look of deepest disinterest.

“Or we could, like, not. I’m going to my room, weirdos.” With that she was gone, leaving Clara, still blushing and residually furious, and the Doctor, who looked rather hurt.

“I don’t like being boring.” He mumbled.

“Everyone is boring to her,” Clara explained. “Because she thinks she’s _cool._ It’s not personal.”

“But I used to be cool!” he complained, looking around the room at the photos of Clara, Emma, and occasionally himself, wondering, as ever, where the time had gone. He was surprised to find that when he looked back to Clara, she was crying. “What’s the matter? Are you malfunctioning again?”

“No,” she shook her head and tried to smile. “I just used to be cool to her too.”

 

 ~/~/~/~

 

Clara hardly even remembered how the subject had been broached. Emma had come home from university for Christmas – she’d opted for Maths, with a minor in Literature, to Clara’s intense pleasure – and things had been going perfectly pleasantly. Christmas dinner had been eaten, the Doctor had been cajoled into wearing a hat from a cracker, and the King’s Speech was on TV. Mother and daughter were sprawled in the lounge, while The Doctor had disappeared to the kitchen to try and wash up. Clara was praying he didn’t break as many plates as last year, when he’d seen fit to test some new gadget.

“You know, mum, you should really start seeing someone new,” Emma said out of nowhere. “You can’t just stick around all year waiting for the Doctor to turn up every month. It’s a bit tragic.”

Clara’s head snapped up from her book. She’d refused to upgrade to an e-reader, much to Emma’s amusement. “What?”

“It’s just a bit weird. At least you’re the same age now, but like, it’s still kinda weird. You should get a life.” Emma offered, blissfully unaware of the rising colour in her mother’s cheeks.

“I’ve got a life,” Clara said through gritted teeth. “All the more so since you left for university.”

“I mean a _sex_ life. Do you even have sex? Does he even have a…?”

“Emma Oswald Pink, be quiet.” Clara could feel her patience ebbing away. “It isn’t like that. It’s never been like that.”

“So why does he keep turning up? You’ve gotta admit it’s weird, he’s not my dad, he’s not your boyfriend, why does he…” Emma looked up as the Doctor entered the room.

“Clara’s important to me.” He said quietly. “You both are. I have a duty of care.”

“ _Why?_ ” Emma pressed. “Dad would have found this weird.”

“Your dad hated me,” the Doctor confirmed. “Couldn’t stand me, for the longest time. I think it was his ego.”

“See, mum? It’s _weird._ It’s all bloody weird.” Emma was triumphant now. “He should bugger off.”

“How dare you.” Clara’s voice was quiet but full of steely anger. She stood over Emma, her eyes burning with rage. “He has been there for you through everything, he has been there for me. You do not talk about him like this, not to me, not to anyone.”

“But…”

“No buts, young lady. You will respect him, and respect me. He has helped me more than you will ever know.” Clara’s tone was still measured, but she was getting louder, her face flushing.

“IT’S DISRESPECTING DAD!” Emma yelled, finally losing her composure, and Clara followed.

“YOU NEVER KNEW HIM!”

“AND IT’S HIS FAULT!” Emma screamed, pointing at the Doctor. “MY FRIEND’S AUNT WORKS FOR UNIT, HE TOLD ME EVERYTHING.”

Clara inwardly cursed Mark Lethbridge-Stewart. “It was _not_ his fault! Your father died in a car accident, Emma, you know that.”

“And then _he_ got involved, with his _freak_ friend, and dad’s body got… Cybered, and everything went wrong!”

“Emma, please… it was all just… we didn’t…” Clara was apologetic now, desperately trying to salvage Christmas Day.

“Do you know what mum? I don’t care if he’s shown you the universe. Travel in time and space across the galaxy forever and ever, mum, and fuck off. Both of you, just fuck off.”

There was a whirl of scarlet and a slamming door, and Emma was gone.

“Clara, I’m…” the Doctor began, his head bowed, a sense of deep embarrassment taking hold of him.

“Don’t,” Clara said thickly. “Just _don’t._ ”

 

 ~/~/~/~

 

Emma stood in the cemetery, her eyes wet with tears. The earth hadn’t settled yet, and etching on the headstone was still stark and new.

_Clara Oswald. 1986 – 2070. Beloved daughter and mother._

“She was quite the woman.”

The voice caught her off guard, and she turned.

“You.” Emma said softly. “It’s you. Of course it’s you.”

“It’s me,” the Doctor strode over and stood beside her, surveying the plot, and Emma wondered how it could be that he never looked any different. “Been a while.”

“Thirty six years,” Emma added. “I’m sorry, about all that... stuff. Mum was too.”

“I know. I saw her last month,” he admitted. “And quite a lot of the months before that. I did keep telling her to tell you, but she seemed to think you wouldn’t approve. She talked about you an awful lot.”

Emma half expected to be angry that her mother had kept this from her, but instead she smiled. “Thank you for being there for her,” she murmured, casting her eyes down to the wreath of blue roses that rested against the headstone, suddenly understanding who they had been from. “You know we made up then?”

“Yep.”

“And that my son… my son is named Daniel.”

“Yup. Nice lad, she always said. Just like his grandpa.”

“And that she did love you, but not in that way?”

He hesitated for a long moment, then put his arm round Emma and pressed his lips to the top of her head.

“Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> For more details on Clara's adventures with Jane Austen, my fic "Persuasion" offers some insight into exactly what the pair of them got up to back in 1796...


End file.
